


Southern Nights

by genevievedarcygranger



Series: Regan Week 2018 pt 2 [1]
Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (Comics)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fear, Hurt/Comfort, Jailbird Negan, M/M, Old Man Rick Grimes, Out of Character, Suicidal Thoughts, prison Negan, slight romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 02:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15831768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genevievedarcygranger/pseuds/genevievedarcygranger
Summary: Negan breaks out of his cell, but he’s still not free.





	Southern Nights

**Author's Note:**

> This is very much a fic that became it's own thing because, by all means, I never intended to write this.

Really, Negan should have known better. When Olivia didn’t lock the door properly, Negan at first thought it was a test. He wasn’t sure when they would come back, especially since that was supposed to be the last visit for the day since he got his bath and his dinner. Still, he was nothing but cautious as he waited to see if they would come back and rub it in his face about how they broke him in like some dog who has nowhere else to go.

It wasn’t until nightfall that Negan realized it actually was a mistake; and then he was left with a choice. Does he stay and leave the door open wide, proving to Rick that he can be trustworthy? Or does he just get the hell out of here so that he doesn’t have to shit in a bucket anymore? As tempting as freedom was, Negan knew that he couldn’t go back to the Sanctuary now that Dwight was in charge. He’d have to live out in the wilderness, alone, and even as isolated as he was in the cell, Negan had plenty of visitors. Rick brought him hot meals, warm blankets on cold nights, a bathtub to bathe in, cleaned out his shit bucket, gave him medicine when he was sick. Leaving would give all of that up – but Negan just couldn’t pass up this opportunity.

So, he left. As he crept up the stairs, Negan felt at any moment he was going to be caught and shoved back in the cage after getting a beating. Nothing happened. He opened the door – also unlocked – to the outside and his heart stopped. It was a moonless night. No one would be able to see him. He could just climb right over the Alexandria wall and take his chances out there. But he didn’t want that.

He stepped out of that cramped jailhouse he’d spent years (years? Yes, it had to be years) rotting away in. His bare feet touched the grass, already slick with dew. It felt like the years just melted off of him as he inhaled the fresh air. Cautiously, he walked out into the street, eyes and ears trained for any sign of people. There was nothing; not even a guard on patrol. Negan wanted to scoff at how naive and trusting the Alexandrians were, but at the same time he couldn’t blame them. Overhead stretched a blanket of twinkling little stars, their light not bright enough to fully illuminate Alexandria around him, but as Negan wandered, he still saw all the sights Rick told him about. The New World had gone on without him.

Overwhelmed, Negan ran and it wasn’t until the metallic jangle of the cell door being slammed shut rang in his ears that he realized he had locked himself back in his jailcell.

* * *

 

The next day, Rick Grimes delivered Negan his breakfast, which was some fried eggs, a pancake with no syrup, and an apple. He never said a word about Negan’s midnight stroll around Alexandria. He never pulled on the door to double-check if it was locked or not. All he did was pass Negan his plate and ask if he slept well.

Picking at the pancake, Negan avoided his eye, afraid to give himself away. “Slept alright. You know this bed is shitty.”

He heard more than he saw from the corner of his eye when Rick grabbed his chair and placed it a foot away from the bars so he could sit and wait for Negan to finish. The wooden legs scraped against the floor, and it creaked under Rick’s weight when he finally sat down, relieving the pressure on his bad leg as he stretched it out. From underneath his lashes, Negan could see the underside of Rick’s boot worn smooth from time. It looked close to developing a hole soon. Negan shoved a forkful of pancakes in his mouth.

“You’re awfully quiet this mornin’,” Rick commented, and he was right. Normally, Negan always tried to be chipper, and he wasn’t the kind of guy to not be his obnoxious self anytime Rick came to visit. Even before, Negan had never been the kind of asshole who couldn’t talk until he had his morning coffee. He was just lucky that way.

Not wanting to incriminate himself, Negan blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I’m just wondering if you know any other kind of fucking way to cook eggs other than frying them to hell and back.”

Snorting, Rick offered, “I can scramble them, if you like.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to bite back, _I’m not a fucking child_. But Negan didn’t say that. Instead, he said, “I’d appreciate that a fucking lot, Rick.”

And when Negan dared to glance at Rick’s weathered, handsome face, he was pleased to see that Rick didn’t look irritated at all, and he had an almost-smile on his face as he nodded at Negan.

* * *

 

That night after Rick took away his dinner plate, Negan tried to open his cell door again to no avail. Apparently, when he slammed it last time, he had jammed the lock back into place. His cell door was not unlocked everyday – only on bath days, which were once a week mostly, unless Rick was busy and then he’d put it off for another week. Negan would just have to wait until bath day to see if the lock malfunction was a one-time thing or not, but something restless inside Negan couldn’t wait for his chance to explore again. He’d had a taste of freedom, and all he wanted was more.

* * *

 

For the rest of the week for breakfast, Rick scrambled Negan’s eggs instead of frying them. Negan was very grateful for the change, and Rick never suspected a thing.

* * *

 

When bath day rolled back around again, Negan was once again unusually quiet. Normally, he wasn’t shy at all about waving his dick around because he had nothing to be ashamed of with his perfectly averaged-sized penis. He was obnoxious about it since he wasn’t allowed to take a bath in peace or hold his own razor or a pair of scissors without a gun being pointed at his head then he had every right to be cranky. Today, however, Negan held his breath as Olivia fumbled with the key to unlock the cell door. She yanked on the bars and it swung open on well-oiled hinges; Negan fought to hide his smile.

As he bathed, he was too distracted to try and flirt with any of his guards. Usually, they were the ones telling him to hurry up, but not today. Instead, he washed as fast as possible, and in his head, he had a mantra. _Please don’t fucking lock please don’t fucking lock please don’t fucking lock_ –

All too soon he was dressed in a clean pair of scratchy clothes (he only had two sets that they alternated washing), and he was shoved back inside his cell with a firm push against his back. Without complaint, Negan sat on his bed and locked eyes with Olivia as she struggled to lock the door again. Behind her, Andrea huffed impatiently, hand resting on her pistol with blunt fingernails clicking against the metal. “What’s taking so long?”

“It’s sticking,” Olivia explained, a flustered blush rising to her face.

Negan forgot how to breathe as he waited and dared to hope against hope.

"There. I got it.”

Olivia and Andrea left, the others having already carried the bathtub back upstairs again. Not wanting to risk anyone coming back in for a last-minute visit, Negan stayed rooted to his bed. He counted to one-hundred-Mississippi aloud. Just his luck, Rick arrived right around thirty-seven-Mississippi with dinner.

“Evenin’, Negan,” Rick coolly greeted, and passed Negan his bowl of reheated Pork-N-Beans through the bars. “Andrea told me there were no problems at bath time. That’s good. Glad to hear you’re behavin’.”

Shoving spoonful after spoonful of warm mush from a can in his mouth, Negan stared resolutely at Rick instead of at the door lock. Last time, all it took was the slightest pressure of his hand for it to open. Usually, Rick refrained from touching the bars unless he was getting firm with Negan, so Negan just had to hope that it didn’t swing open on its own while he ate his dinner. He shoveled Pork-N-Beans down his gullet faster.

“Calm down, Negan.” Rick’s tone was both amused and gentle. “You act like I’m goin’ to take your bowl away at any minute. You’ve got time to eat; I’ve got nowhere to be.”

A candle of warmth lit in Negan’s chest. It wasn’t often that Rick came down to visit him for a talk, and tonight he was in one of those moods. Negan felt a little guilty for wanting to rush Rick out of here as soon as possible, not when he had to admit that he’s come to admire the guy after these years together. After what he saw out there, Negan had to admire him for all that.

Taking his time, Negan wiped away some stray juice that dribbled down his freshly shaven chin. “Sorry, Rick. That’s bad table manners on my fucking part. I’m just – really fucking hungry. Pork-N-Beans is my fucking favorite, y’know.” 

“It is?” Rick seemed genuinely interested in Negan’s favorites. “I’ll have to keep that in mind for next time. I thought spaghetti was your favorite.”

“Homemade fucking spaghetti, Rick.” Negan jabbed his little spoon in Rick’s direction. “Not that shit from a can from Chef Boyar-fucking-dee. Shit. I’d prefer the fucking alphabet spaghetti to his shit. And his ravioli? Fucking disgrace.”

Rick glanced down at his hand and hook in his lap as he chuckled. What used to bring a frown to his face at Negan’s colorful expletives now made him crack a smile more often than not. Negan wasn’t going to question it. When he looked back up at Negan again, catching him staring, his gaze was thoughtful.

Hastily swallowing his mouthful of beans, Negan asked, “What’s up, doc?”

At first, he didn’t answer, but then Rick just slowly shook his head side to side. “Nothing, Negan.” It had to be something, though, because he still had that troubled expression on his face. “You finished with your dinner?”

Looking down into his empty bowl, Negan tilted the bowl to his mouth to slurp up the last of the bean juice. Then he expectantly held it out through the bars for Rick to take. “Thanks for buying me fucking dinner, Rick. Do I have to put out this time?”

Taking the bowl, Rick chastised, “Negan.” Compared to how maybe three months ago that would make Rick frown and give Negan the cold shoulder, this was definitely progress.

Negan was waiting for Rick to leave when he suddenly reached his hook through the bars. Not expecting that, Negan flinched away as the hook – definitely a walker-killing tool – came straight for his throat. His hands came up and protectively shielded it, the scars ropey and very much visible now that he’s taken to shaving again.

Rick pulled his hook back through the bars again, his face pinched with sympathy, and explained in a low, rough voice. “You had some bean on your face.” Using his hook, he gently tapped against the side of his mouth where Negan’s dimple would be. “Just there.”

Negan’s tongue flashed to the side of his mouth and swiped away some of the sauce.

“It’s still there,” Rick pointed out too calmly.

Using the back of his hand, Negan scrubbed it away.

“There. All gone.”

On the other side of the bars, Rick awkwardly shuffled his feet as much as his bad leg would allow, and then nodded his goodbye. He limped away, back up the stairs to the outside world he built, and Negan watched hungrily. Soon, he would follow.

After counting to one-hundred-Mississippi at least four times just to make sure, Negan hesitantly reached out and grabbed one of the cool, metal bars of his cell door. With the slightest resistance that easily gave way with a push, the door opened. Again, Negan had the choice: freedom or trust.

This time Negan chose trust. He didn’t go further from the entryway of his jailhouse. He sat in the door frame, his feet just outside in the cool dirt, and he looked up at the stars and tried to count them all.

Part of him still wondered if any of this was real or if he went crazy in that jail cell long ago. But he could hear crickets chirping peacefully, no lumbering walkers forcing them to pause in their song. Sometimes he saw a lightning bug light up and dance before fading away into the dark. The moon was starting to come back again, waxed into a small crescent. The man on the moon would be able to fish tonight.

It wasn’t until the black of night started to fade to a grey that Negan realized he’d spent the whole night just sitting here and watching the world turn from his liminal, timeless space. Grey gave way to lavender and pink and then golden orange as the sun peeked out from over the tree-line and Alexandrian walls. Some of the more resilient stars kept twinkling just for the sake of rivalry, but it wasn’t until Negan started to hear the bangs of front doors opening that he crept back inside again, unable to watch the sunrise to completion.

Inside his cell, he pulled the door shut hard, and when he shook it with all his strength, it never budged. He would have to wait another week again.

* * *

 

When Rick came to deliver breakfast, he had to shout to wake Negan up to eat. Eventually, Negan’s rolled out of bed and blindly grabbed his plate of scrambled eggs, pancakes, and strawberries. Half-asleep, he shoved the fruit in his mouth first, not even bothering to not eat the green parts. Rick watched on with concern.

 "Negan, are you sick?”

“No,” Negan mumbled around a mouthful of tart strawberry.

“What’s wrong? You didn’t sleep well?”

“Yeah, that mattress is only getting shittier, y’know,” Negan latched on, too tired to come up with anything else.

“Just the mattress? You didn’t have any nightmares?”

Pausing mid-chew, Negan cracked open his eyes to fully take in Rick. He was standing in front of the cell, leaning heavily on his cane. His bottom lip was sucked into his mouth as he anxiously chewed it. Negan slowly drawled, “Sometimes I have nightmares. I don’t sleep as much as I used to anymore just because of the fucking force of habit. Sleep with one eye open, shit like that.”

Rick took the time to mull over what Negan said before he responded, “If you wanna talk about anythin’, you can. With me.”

Lowering his plate to his lap, Negan gave Rick another hard, long look. “You, too, Rick. I’m always here to talk – 24 fucking 7. Even on holidays.”

“I know, Negan,” and Rick didn’t mean it in a pitying way.

The rest of breakfast was quiet as Negan picked away at his pancake, saving his scrambled eggs for last. Halfway through the eggs – perfectly fluffy in his mouth – Negan broke the silence, “You ever see a dawn, Rick?”

Clearly not expecting Negan to talk for the rest of breakfast, Rick looked up sharply. “What, are you askin’ me about movies again, Negan? _Red Dawn_?”

“No, no, I mean a real dawn. Not the movie, although Patrick Swayze is a fine piece of ass in that.”

Tilting his head, Rick answered, “I have. Not for a while, though. I try to be up before the sun so I can do a little gardenin’ before it gets too hot, but I’m only gettin’ older. I like my sleep, when I can get it.”

There Rick went again, alluding to his nightmares. Negan’s chest felt too tight. “I think I’ve only ever watched the sun rise once to fucking completion. It was at the beach for my – I was with – it doesn’t matter.” He fumbled with his words, but then babbled on once he got his rhythm again. “It was at the beach, so that made it ten times more fucking beautiful that way. The ocean and the sky change colors at the same time. All the reds and blues and yellows. Makes me think of all that sailor shit you hear about. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning. You ever hear any of that shit before Rick?”

“No, don’t think I have.” Rick’s gaze on him was steady and felt as heavy as a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You’re right about sunrises bein’ beautiful, Negan. I much prefer them to sunsets.”

“Yeah.” Negan has probably seen a thousand sunsets and just never thought about it. “I wanna see the sunrise again one day, Rick,” he confessed.

Never pitying, Rick just nodded at him and took back his empty breakfast plate. “You will one day, Negan.”

He never said when that would be, and Negan knew better than to ask.

* * *

 

Negan would have to be the biggest idiot on Earth if he didn’t notice the subtle change between him and Rick. For the rest of the week, conversation between them flowed more easily, and yet there were still these pregnant, expectant pauses between them that something more than words filled. Time went on, and Negan had at least three more weekly rituals of escape. He spent one wandering through the garden, enjoying the squash of dirt between his toes that he carefully had to stomp, kick, and shake off before he entered the jailhouse again. One night, he dug up a carrot just to see what was growing and he ate it raw because he was hungry for something fresh. He didn’t do that again, though, because Rick complained about how there were pests getting into the gardens, and Negan was very grateful that he had the forethought to not leave any noticeable footprints.

On this most recent escape, Negan found a spot on top of a gazebo to lay on his back and just stare up at the full moon overhead. Part of him had wanted to howl, to run through the streets and whistle and sing and dance because he was free and it felt good. But other than caution telling him not to, a larger part of Negan didn’t want to disturb the night. He felt so small, so insignificant in the scope of things, and he wasn’t used to feeling that way. Before he used to matter. He was somebody’s baby, he was Lucille’s husband, he was two hundred people’s Savior. And now he was none of that. If he died, Alexandria and the other communities would probably throw a parade and be glad they didn’t have to waste resources on him anymore. Nobody would mourn him, miss him, shed a single tear. It scared him.

The next week, Negan decided not to leave his cell. Right after Olivia and Andrea left when bath time was over, Negan jimmied open his cell door only to immediately shut it again so as to not tempt himself. Every time he went out there, he dragged his feet coming back to his bed. The time spent on the gazebo, Negan had nearly fallen asleep, and he had to make a mad sprint before anyone saw him; he still never got to finish his sunrise. But that didn’t really matter. What he had come to realize underneath the full moon, that he was nothing and really less than nothing – the idea wrapped its tendrils around his heart, squeezing tight like an octopus and refusing to let go.

He ate less than he normally did, leaving his tray half-empty when he passed it back to Rick. Rick asked if it was because of his cooking – _“I thought I got better,”_ – but Negan just said he didn’t need to eat as much anymore.

_“I just sit on my ass all day, Rick. I don’t need that much fucking food. Hell, give it to Carl. He’s a growing boy. Just don’t waste it all on me.”_

Negan also stopped talking as much to Rick, which never used to be a problem for him before. Now, though, as he saw how Rick was looking at him, how he treated him with nothing but respect, Negan started making his excuses about that as well.

_“I’m tired, Rick. Can I go to bed now? What? No, it’s not nightmares. It’s just the shitty, fucking mattress.”_

On several different days, Negan had to turn down Rick’s offer to get another mattress. He just put it off on his age and how it wasn’t any use because it still wouldn’t be a California King, etc. Rick’s mouth pinched because he didn’t like it, but ultimately, he left Negan alone when he asked. But that didn’t stop the three-square meals a day, which always inevitably led to small talks. And Rick still worked his way under Negan’s skin despite it all.

And then it was bath time again.

Negan did a half-ass job of bathing himself, more or less just splashing water over himself and keeping his mouth shut. Neither Olivia nor Andrea complained about that, though both of them had mirroring perturbed expressions at his sullen silence. When it was over and they were gone, Negan didn’t even bother getting up to relock his door because he had already wrapped himself in his blanket again and faced the way, waiting for sleep. He slept a lot these days, and he did have nightmares, but he couldn’t tell Rick about them.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Negan woke up in a cold sweat because he dreamed that Rick died. He couldn’t even remember how he died – just that he was gone – and it was only then that Negan realized that if he did die tomorrow that would leave Negan with no one. He was already out of bed and on his feet before he could even blink, and his cell door was already open, begging him to leave.

So, Negan left.

As soon as he opened the door to the jailhouse, Negan knew it was going to rain. He could smell it in the air, and in the distance, there was the ominous roll of thunder. No lightning yet, though, so he still had time.

Even though he had only ever been inside Rick’s house once, Negan had walked by it enough on his weekly strolls that he knew exactly where it was. His front door was yellow – and it was unlocked. Negan guessed that since there were walls, Rick didn’t see the point in locking his door. Not a single creaking floorboard underfoot, he crept up the stairs. He had no idea what he was doing here, but in his blind panic from his dream, all he knew was that he had to tell Rick about his nightmare.

Rick’s bedroom door wasn’t locked either, and it didn’t squeak when it swung open at Negan’s slightest touch. Alone in his queen-sized bed, Rick slept on his back, one hand over his chest while his other arm stretched over the empty right space of the bed. His hook was sitting on his nightstand, shining in the dark. Negan walked into the room like a ghost, and Rick never stirred. He marveled at how the man could be so trusting and peaceful.

Leaning against the dresser, Negan spent a long time just watching Rick sleep. He snored a little bit, but not too loud, and his fingers twitched. Sometimes he would turn his face to the right or to the left, but not for too long. Eventually, the rain came in – and Negan knew that there was no backing out now. If he were to try to run back to his cell, he’d never be able to hide his muddy footprints. Taking a deep breath, he decided to wake Rick.

“Been a long time since we had one of our little talks,” he spoke into the dark.

Immediately, Rick jerked away and blindly reached out for a weapon. His hand found his prosthetic, which he immediately brandished at Negan. When his eyes connected Negan’s, recognition flooded his features and then relief before outright bewilderment. “How the hell did you get out?”

“The lock’s been broken on the door for quite some time now, Rick.”

“Shit.” Rick started to put on his prosthetic, strapping it on tight and twisting the hook into place. “You – you’re the one who’s been tramplin’ through my gardens!”

“Yeah,” Negan’s tone was apologetic, “that was me.”

“Shit,” Rick repeated and pushed his blankets off.

“Hey, no need for that now.” Negan raised his hands in a placating gesture. “You don’t have to get outta bed. I’m not gonna escape. I could’ve done that a month ago if I wanted.”

Ignoring half of that statement, Rick carefully swung his legs out of bed. He grimaced as he moved to his fast, his bad leg protesting the sudden movement as the muscles seized up around his thigh and twinged at the knee. “Then why haven’t you escaped, Negan? Why are you in my house?”

Shrugging, Negan replied, “Seems only fair. You come to my house everyday where I sleep.”

“Negan,” Rick chastised in that same way of his. “You shouldn’t be doin’ this.”

“You don’t even know why I’m here.”

"I would if you finally tell me.”

“I had a nightmare.” It was only after he said it that Negan realized how childish he sounded, and he frowned at himself. “You said if I needed to talk about my nightmares, I could come to you.”

Squinting, Rick studied Negan’s lost and earnest expression as much as he could in the dark. With a sigh, he waved his hook at him. “Come here.”

Negan stepped closer and then sat on the edge of the bed when Rick urged him to. Up this close, he saw that Rick slept in baby blue boxers that were a size too large and an old, stained, white T-shirt that was a size too small.

“Tell me your dream,” Rick said with all the patience of a father. It made Negan glad to remember that the house was empty. Earlier in the week, Rick had mildly complained about his empty nest since Carl was gone to the Hilltop for his blacksmithing apprenticeship. Picking at a loose thread in his pants, Negan didn’t mention about how the house wasn’t empty anymore.

“It was a nightmare. You died.” Negan looked anywhere but at Rick’s face. “You just fucking died, and I can’t remember if it was from walkers or people or what – but you died.”

Rick didn’t seem that alarmed, but he didn’t seem amused either. “Well, as you can see, I’m not dead. Nothin’ to be worried about.”

“No,” Negan spoke, staring out but seeing nothing. “If you died, shit would be peaceful about it. Oh, yeah, there would be screaming and wailing in the streets over you, and it would tear up your boy; but you’ve built so much that I bet this place practically runs itself. Hell, that’s probably why you can come and see me every damn day, three time a fucking day, and chat for at least an hour about nothing at all.”

“Negan,” Rick broke into his chain of thought, and he reached out his hand to place it gently on top of Negan’s. It was an awkward maneuver for him, forcing him to cross his arm over his body, but after the last time Negan reacted towards his hook, Rick was more careful now about it. “Negan,” Rick licked his lips, “what’re you sayin’?”

“I’m saying that when you die,” Negan sighed, “They’ll build fucking monuments. Statues that try to capture the nobleness in your nose and fucking paintings that can’t hold a candle to that damn sparkle in your eye. Every damn year, they’ll sing songs about Rick Grimes, who saved people and won the war and made the world a better place.” His tone wasn’t bitter or sarcastic or mocking. It was factual, no emotional inflection, as if reading it straight from a book in front of his nose.

Negan’s gaze dropped to Rick’s hand resting innocuously over his own. He wanted to turn his palm, lace his fingers together with Rick’s, but his hand felt so heavy. A listlessness settled over him. Even speaking was exhausting him. “When I finally fucking die, they’ll take turns pissing on my grave. Scratch that, they’ll take turns pissing on my walker corpse and probably keep that around as a goddamn pet, too.”

Beside him, Rick drew in a sharp breath, and Negan could practically hear the _click_ in his head as he finally got what was eating Negan up inside for over a month now. A flash of lightning outside, and Rick’s bedroom was illuminated as if it was day. Rick’s countenance was drawn and tight, clearly upset. Negan’s face was smooth, not a knit in his brow, not a frown on his mouth, but his expression was grim and palpable on the tongue. In the very next moment, thunder rolled louder than before, not quite on top of the house, but impossible to ignore. Negan didn’t flinch, but Rick imperceptibly moved closer to Negan.

When they could hear again, it was their steady breathing and the drumming of the rain on the roof, tapping on the glass, hard and steady and not going to let up any time soon. “You’re not fixin’ to die.”

“No, but I don’t really have a reason to live anymore either.” As soon as he said it, Negan thought a weight would lift off his shoulders. He thought confession was supposed to be what would take the blade from his neck so he could breathe again, but that’s not what he felt at all. The words were out there in the air, and there was no way that Rick could misunderstand it. Shame flooding him, Negan hunched his shoulders by his ears, head bowed and fists clenched. More than anything about himself, he hated how weak he was, but that’s what he was. Weak. Useless. Unwanted. Unloved. Weak for wanting to be any of that, for wanting to be needed, wanted, and loved. Maybe even missed.

A hand on his face pulled Negan out of his thoughts, and despite himself, he leaned heavily into the touch. It had been so long since someone touched him, and when he looked up at Rick, he felt his skin sing at the hand on his face. This time, when he sighed, it was an exhalation of the deepest, simplest pleasure. “I don’t have the answers for all that,” Rick admitted. “No one does. But tomorrow, we’ll do somethin’ about it.”

“So what now?” Negan flatly asked, fully expecting to be sent back to the doghouse before anyone could catch him.

Again, Rick licked his lips. “For now, how about you get under the covers? I’m cold and this position ain’t doin’ my leg any favors.”

Robotically, Negan got up and moved to the right side of the bed to climb in under the blankets. The sheet on that side of the bed was cool, but as Negan automatically curled his body towards Rick, he felt the warmth again that started to seep into his bones. It made him feel human again.

Meanwhile, Rick took off his prosthetic and returned it to its spot on his nightstand before he settled down next to Negan. Because of his leg, he remained on his back, but he lifted his arm in a silent invitation for Negan to get closer. Negan did wiggle closer until he had his head pillowed on Rick’s chest, and while he felt a little ridiculous for doing that since he was a grown-ass man, it felt so good to be in that simple embrace that he didn’t even throw out a smart-ass comment about it.

They listened to the rain outside until it went away, but still neither of them slept. Negan didn’t sleep because he was afraid if he closed his eyes, he’d just wake up back in the cell again. He knew Rick wasn’t asleep because his breathing never changed, and Rick’s stump – an appendage that forgot it lacked a hand, rubbed up and down Negan’s back soothingly.

Negan had almost succumbed to his exhaustion when Rick shifted underneath him. “Negan,” he whispered.

“What?”

"Get up now. Come with me.”

Pulling away, Negan watched as Rick rolled out of bed, grabbing his cane quickly. With more speed than Negan thought possible, considering Rick’s leg, he limped out of the bedroom. For exactly a moment, Negan was terrified that Rick was going to lead him to the jailhouse, but then he couldn’t help but follow Rick anyway.

Wearing his loose boxers and rumpled t-shirt that exposed a small strip of white skin at the small of his back, Rick stood on the porch, relying on the railing to stand. Negan stepped up beside him, and looked out, too, not needing any instruction to do so. The sun was rising. It was a brand new day.

In that still morning silence, Rick and Negan watched dawn break out over the horizon until all vestiges of night faded away from the landscape. Alexandria came alive before their very eyes. Flowers bloomed. People walked down the street. Birds sang. Sunlight sparkled on every water droplet left from last night’s rain. It was beautiful.

And in that moment, Negan was happy, and Rick finally turned to face him, he could see his happiness on his face as Negan smiled for the first time in weeks. “I know the nights are hard, and the days can be hard, too.” Rick took him and led him inside, having to lean against Negan after being on his feet for too long. “But this is somethin’ you gotta take day by day. And you don’t have to do it alone.” He led them all the way back to his bedroom, urging Negan to get back into bed before he joined him. “Let’s rest now, Negan. No more nightmares.”

**Author's Note:**

> I originally didn't want to post this because I just know there's gonna be someone out there who's gonna leave an ugly response, but this one is also personal for me, so I feel obligated to post something cathartic even if it ain't exactly true to the characters.


End file.
